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by Bioluminex



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, It's already been done I'm sure, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: “Go on, since completing your mission is all you care about,” Hank mumbles dejectedly, eyes swimming in unfallen tears. Connor stalls, uncertain of what to do or say. It wants Hank to put the revolver away, it wants Hank to leave the table, it wants it wants it wants. It's never wanted anything so desperately.(The suicide scene, altered.)





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**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this AGES ago in August and I decided to do some quick editing today to post this.  
> Please be aware this fic handles mentions/attempt of suicide, so please, have a trusted individual read this first if you are uncomfortable with this subject. Your well-being will always matter more.  
> Love, Bio.

“Go on, since completing your mission is all you care about,” Hank mumbles dejectedly, eyes swimming in unfallen tears. Connor stalls, uncertain of what to do or say. It wants Hank to put the revolver away, it wants Hank to leave the table, it wants it wants it _wants._ It's never wanted anything so desperately.

It's a machine, it _shouldn't_ want.

“Hank, _please_ ,” it begs.

“The fuck do you care? You're a _machine!”_ the lieutenant shouts, the tears dripping down his cheeks. “So, for once in your life, just be one and _obey!”_

Connor's LED flashes red and it steps back, as though the order physically struck it. It's worried and scared. It doesn’t want Hank to die.

It runs preconstructions and reads the percentages, for even the slightest chance it can change the outcome. It could take the revolver and prevent Hank from using it. It considers the chance the lieutenant could pick up the revolver and shoot it in the process of approaching.

Connor can feel its biocomponents warming with the speed of its processing power running higher than average. It preconstructions again, again, _again_.

“Hank, don’t shoot yourself,” Connor says softly. “Please don’t do this.”

“Leave,” Hank growls, picking up the revolver. Sumo whines loudly, cowering in hallway.

“Lieutenant, I advise you to put that down,” Connor steps forward, a small difference in distance, its tone urgent. Hank's glare is poison.

Suddenly the 6.2ft human seems so small and fragile, a struggling bird with broken wings. Connor feels something inside it shattering, responding to that weakness, and moves closer. Hank's stress levels rise, pulse increasing.

“Put the gun down,” Connor urges. It remembers Daniel, it remembers them all. Those who suffered in silence, those who died fighting for something they believed in. Died because they lost it all, had nothing to live for.

Connor doesn’t want to lose Hank.

“Connor, I told you to leave,” Hank says quietly. He lifts the revolver, hand shaking. “Get out of here.”

“ _Hank_ , no-"

_“GET OUT!!”_

**_CHANCE OF LT. ANDERSON'S DEATH: 99%_ **

The one percent is all that matters.

Connor charges, launching himself across the table as the trigger pulls. The _bang_ is deafening but not as loud as the shattering red behind Connor's eyes.

He lands on something soft, wood clattering on ceramic tile in his audio processors, and hears a ragged gasp underneath him. Connor lifts his head and sees the revolver on the kitchen floor, and wide blue eyes in front of his nose.

He can feel Hank's heartbeat in his chest, pounding as strongly as if it were his own.

“Jesus, what the _fuck_ are you doing?” Hank wheezes.

“Saving your life,” Connor responds, aware his weight is pressing on the lieutenant's lungs. He lifts off him gingerly and snatches the revolver, throwing it into the corner far away from reach.

Hank sits up, wincing as he feels the back of his head. His fingers come away bloody. Connor scoots closer, resting one hand on the lieutenant's nape.

“Head down, please,” he murmurs, tilting Hank forward to see the extent of the damage. It's little more than a small cut but as with all head wounds, it's bleeding profusely as a result of the condensed pressure inside the skull. He pulls off his tie and folds it, pressing the fabric to the cut. Hank hisses under his breath.

“Am I gonna die, Doc?” Hank asks, a touch of humor lingering in his voice. It's relieving to hear.

“Not if I can help it,” Connor answers, leaning down to see Hank's face. It's hard to not be angry. “That was reckless and idiotic of you, Lieutenant. Killing yourself is not the answer to your problems.”

“Then what is, _detective_?” he sneers sarcastically, trying to pull away from the android, but Connor grips harder. The cut will need disinfecting and sutures.

“Letting someone help you,” he finally decides to say. Hank squints at him for a moment, debating whether he should respond or not. Connor, in the meantime, climbs to his feet and guides Hank's hand to hold the wadded tie where it is. He bends to pick up the revolver, glaring at the smooth metal firearm, and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. “Where is your emergency kit located?”

“Bathroom, sink cupboard,” Hank responds, leaning forward a little. “Uhh, I’m gonna need a few painkillers.”

Connor walks down the hall and into the bathroom, flicking on the light. He digs through the sink cupboard for the box containing the needle and sutures he'd hoped would be there, and grabs a bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet over the basin. He closes the hinged mirror and pauses, seeing his face.

Connor sees himself for the first time since breaking free. The restraints are a rapidly distant memory, a sense of self and identity already taking hold. He – not _it_ – studies the narrowed brown eyes and light profile, long nose and strong jawline, somewhere between “pretty" and “handsome" someone might describe. There are other names, but he swings his profile from side to side, curiosity settling in the place where his stomach might be if he were flesh and bone.

Not human, but _alive_.

Awareness is suddenly _huge_ , the gravity of his decision weighing down on his shoulders, and he doesn’t know if he can hold it up alone.

Not knowing is _terrifying_.

His first act of deviancy is saving Hank's life and reprimanding him for trying to take it. Connor's mouth twitches into a smile, transforming the frown on his face in the mirror. It looks nice, his smile. It changes him in a way that makes it less frightening, being _more_ than a machine following commands blindly.

Setting the kit on the edge of the sink, he looks at his hands, fingers stained red with blood. He instinctively lifts his hand, prodding the tip of his tongue to the drying crimson, and registers the information. Cell count, alcohol toxin levels, DNA structure, blood type, birth year… it all files neatly into his processor labeled under Lt. Anderson.

For the sake of it, he retitles it ‘Hank’.

Former marriage and parental statuses appear, too, but he dismisses those and picks up the kit, leaving the bathroom and returning to where Hank is still sitting on the floor.

“Are you gonna do that yourself?” the lieutenant inquires nervously as Connor lays out the necessary items in the lid for easy access and kneels behind him. He soaks a pad of gauze in sterilizing alcohol and takes Hank's hand, and the tie, away to wipe clean the drying blood crusting in his hair.

“I have a basic medical program installed,” Connor reassures as Hank swears loudly at the stinging alcohol, pounding a fist against his thigh. “Hank, it would be easier to cut your hair shorter to make the sutures.”

Hank tenses and Connor pulls up the image his visual optics had scanned from the lieutenant’s desk, leaning forward with his palm open, the holographic image displaying Hank sans ten years. The lieutenant nods, and Connor picks up the scissors, starting with the longest sections before working his way up, referencing the image displayed in a window at the corner of his eye. Dense grey locks feather to the floor around them, some pieces crusted with drying blood, but it takes only a couple of minutes. Whilst no hairdresser, it will have to do.

Setting the scissors aside, Connor resumes cleaning the wound and threads the suture. Hank's knuckles are white as he digs his fingers into his hoodie, taking short sharp breaths through his nose. Connor stops at one point, rubbing his back soothingly; he hates he's causing him pain.

“A few years ago, around Christmastime, I broke my hand punching some bastard selling red ice in the jaw,” Hank chuckles, lifting his right hand. “I split my knuckles and shattered the bones in three of the fingers, almost to the point it wasn’t gonna heal. Fucking miracle technology replaced it with a titanium prosthetic, saved my hand.”

Connor ties off the last stitch and begins cleaning up quietly, piling soiled materials neatly, listening to Hank.

“It hurt like a bitch but nothing ever comes close to head wounds,” he glances over his shoulder at Connor just off to his left, a small smile curving his lip. “I was able to hold my son the day he was born.”

Already, Connor's scanned Hank's hand. Where the bones had been broken, three fingers are rock-solid titanium, synthetic ligaments allowing it the complicated range of movement of any normal appendage. It's manufactured by CyberLife (of course) and the technology built into its sensors is remarkably familiar.

Not unlike the skeletal map of android’s appendages.

“I suppose you could inquire about having your skull replaced,” Connor suggests then adds with a different tone, “But I can assure you no fracture occurred when it collided with the floor.”

Hank snorts as he climbs unsteadily to his feet. Swaying, he catches the counter top, blinking a few times.

“You lost a significant amount of blood, and the alcohol in your system will not be helping,” Connor says firmly, packing the kit and taking Hank's arm. “You need to rest.”

Slowly guiding Hank to his room, Connor piles the pillows to keep Hank's head aloft and pulls back the blankets. The lieutenant is fumbling with his clothes, fingers slipping tiredly; gently batting his hands aside, Connor eases the hoodie over his head along with his jeans, leaving him in his underclothes, and carefully helps him into bed.

He leaves and returns with two tablets and a glass of water, handing both to Hank. “I will contact emergency services if anything should happen,” he promises softly, ensuring Hank takes the medication, and checks the wound one last time. It's not bleeding heavily, only a little drainage.

Connor goes to leave, intending to sit in the living room or the kitchen, but Hank's voice prevents him from even reaching the door.

“Why did you stop me?”

He pauses in the door frame, considering his answer. He glances back, feeling eyes leveled on his back, and returns to sit at the edge of the bed.

“I value your life,” Connor says. “Even if you do not.”

“You're a machine. I thought the mission mattered more,” Hank's brows tighten in confusion.

“As did I,” Connor admits quietly. “I was wrong. Killing Markus… and stopping the deviant revolution is not a choice _I_ want to make.”

Hank pats the blanket beside his leg and Connor slides closer, unable to hide his troubled frown from the lieutenant's well-trained eyes.

“On Jericho, there was an android. She told me… I was lost and looking for myself,” he remembers her all-seeing obsidian eyes, her light touch, the clarity in her accepting aura. “She was right.”

“Connor…”

“I was wrong, Hank. I was wrong about everything and now hundreds – _thousands_ – are going to die because I let it happen. I did nothing to help them. I let CyberLife use me like a puppet.”

Even before he finishes speaking it dawns upon him there's something he _can_ do. “CyberLife Tower. There are thousands of androids in the basement levels. If I could get to them...”

“Connor, no,” Hank protests, trying to sit up, but pain crosses his face at the movement. “You can’t go there. They… they'll know you're a deviant.”

“I have to do something before it's too late,” Connor argues, desperate and excited at the prospect of changing the tide, even having the _chance_ to make things right.

“Connor, they _will_ kill you,” Hank grinds out, stress rising rapidly.

“If I don’t come back, can you do something for me?” Connor asks, lifting his gaze to Hank's. He wants to ask him to find his body, and not leave it to be disassembled or rotting in a landfill. But he can’t bring himself to ask, so he says, “Go back to the station and talk to Fowler about getting your job back. You're a damn good police officer and a better man. I’m…” he doesn’t need to breath but his chest feels tight. “I’m proud to have met a person as incredible as you, Hank.”

Hank's eyes gleam with moisture but he looks away quickly, nodding his head. “Yeah, you got it, kid.”

Connor gets off the bed, and turns off the light. “Take care of yourself, Lieutenant,” he adds. “Or I’ll be back.”

Hank's laugh warms his biocomponents as he heads down the hall, strokes Sumo's head fondly in passing, and steps out into the night.

He doesn’t allow himself to consider it could be for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> I've forever wanted the option to do something and change Hank's mind, and regardless of if you are machine or deviant, he still goes through with suicide. I know it was done to highlight the fact establishing a good relationship with Hank meant a better outcome, but FFS Connor is a deviant at this point! You'd assume there would be a difference in dialogue. The same goes for the Hart Plaza rooftop scene. Just "leaving" isn't good enough for me.


End file.
